


Golden Boy

by Legendaerie



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Action, Alas Poor York, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Digital Art, Espionage, Gen, Moral Dilemmas, Post s10/pre-Out Of Mind, possible PTSD, possible canon divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 13:43:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5745994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/pseuds/Legendaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several months after the fall of Project Freelancer, York tries to make things right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden Boy

**Author's Note:**

> ((previously titled "the long road back to good"))
> 
> This fic’s been a long time coming, born of a combination of things. Firstly, of a really vivid and fascinating dream of York as a rogue agent. Secondly, as a desire to make sense of what might have happened between the end of season 10 and the events of Out of Mind to turn York from “we’re the good guys, right?” to “what’s in it for me?” Thirdly, from marathoning so much Star Wars over the holidays I just had to try my hand at an action/sci-fi piece.
> 
> Also, shout-outs to Laurel, my sweet-hearted beta (who has supported me in countless fandoms and whose good opinion may I never lose) and Eponymous-Rose for encouraging me with both her words and works.
> 
> I’ve taken a couple small liberties with key plot points and I hope you can forgive me for them. In any case, here you go!

 

York hasn’t been in the habit of bar-hopping for a long, long time. He doesn’t know any of the popular songs - admitting that to himself makes him feel old - so he taps gloved fingers on the bar and tries to follow the beat. A half-empty glass of cheap synthetic beer keeps him company in the little spaceport bar, catching the neon lights with a slightly oily sheen, and York waits for his contact. He doesn’t know much about bars anymore, but he’s well aware this isn’t the nightclub kind. This is the ‘black market dealing’ kind, which is just as well since he’s a terrible dancer.

Everything about the situation is dangerous, but he just-- he has to know for sure that he made the right decision in leaving Project Freelancer.

Not that York can go back, now; not that there's anything left to go back to, with the entire project turning on itself in a disjointed, cumulative sort of cannibalism as every man, woman, or construct fights for themselves. And he’s not entirely blind to the fact that being wired to Delta on a neurological level makes the Director’s treatment of the AI feel infinitely more personal; makes it easier than it should have been to turn his guns on people he’d worked with for years. No. He’s not blind, not in that sense anyway.

But if he’s going forward, he wants to understand in full what he did in the name of science and progress.

Unfortunately, _understanding_ involves doing the exact same shit York had been doing for several years - breaking and entering massive government buildings and military bases -  just without any backup or contacts or plan or even a proper arsenal. It's like a treasure hunt, except you don't have a map. You don't even have paper. You're just blindfolded and told to dig with your hands when it feels right. Oh, and if you're wrong you'll just die. No big deal.

 _“Are you nervous, Agent York?”_ chimes a voice in the back of his mind. Literally. The crackle of the AI’s attention is a cold prickle down the back of his neck, like the paranoia of something watching him just out of sight, but he’s gotten used to it by now.

York snorts in reply, shifting his weight on the barstool. His ‘bullet-resistant’ jacket and loose pants help to hide the fragments of his armor he chanced to wear - boots, undersuit and bracers, just enough to turn a bar brawl or a getaway in his favor - but without the full set, Delta is little more than a whisper of thought and a pinch at the base of his skull. No holograms. No calculations. Just a friend.

He didn’t realize how much that meant to him until he lost every other one he’d ever made.

_“We will probably survive meeting our contact here. There’s enough cover and at least three exits.”_

“Only probably?” he asks aloud, muffling his words into his hand as he fakes a cough. Delta doesn’t need York to speak to hear him, but it’s easier to talk anyway. Otherwise their thoughts get jumbled like a pile of thread, snapping into knots that give York migraines.

_“I would calculate our odds more precisely, but the mental strain involved would only make this more difficult.”_

Motion catches his good eye, in the mirror behind the bar. Most of the reflective surface is hidden by countless bottles, inscribed with labels in half a dozen different languages he recognises and too many others he doesn’t, but he can still make out someone entering. With three-- no, two companions. Civilian clothes, but with plenty of places for concealed weapons. Like him, with a pistol inside his jacket and a rather unique knife strapped to the inside of his right leg.

York throws a glance their way, catching the eye of the woman in the lead and holding it for a moment. Just long enough for her expression to flash with recognition. Then he takes his glass with him and retreats to a table near the back. The trio follows.

“When you said to keep an eye out for you,” the woman starts as soon as he’s seated, sliding into the chair across from him, “I didn’t expect that to be a pun about your appearance.” One of her men stands behind her and the other sits beside York; on his bad side, in a rather deliberate movement that takes York’s paranoia and raises it by about six levels.

York shrugs and grins anyway, broad enough for it to tug at the jagged scars on his left cheekbone. “It worked, didn’t it? You must be Kass.”

She smiles flatly at him and brushes black bangs out of her face. “And you’re Brady. I have the codes,” and she pulls at a chain on her neck. A flat chip of plastic emerges from under her loose shirt - she lets the chain go and it vanishes again. “And the co-ordinates.”

His own digging has given him three possible locations for the archives, but he hadn’t been able to narrow it down further. “Saves me some time,” he notes, resisting the urge to rock back in his chair. “Can you prove they’re good?”

Again, Kass pulls on her necklace, this time flipping the chip over and revealing the UNSC logo. “Official access card. I told you you’d get your money’s worth.”

York pulls a smile as he holds out his hand. “It’s a start. I’ll transfer the rest of--”

He feels Delta’s alarm as a sharp, fragile stab of cold on the back of his neck just before his contact grabs his wrist and shoves his sleeves up. Gold-hued plating gleams in the low lighting, and York knows she can feel his pulse pick up. Forget hunting for treasure. It’s like digging for it in a minefield.

“Looks expensive,” his contact smiles thinly at him.

“Really?” he replies automatically, already feeling his body shift into combat mode. “I thought it was just cheap paint.”

“Cheap paint on expensive armor. And a certain branch of the UNSC is paying a lot of money for expensive armor. Whether or not there’s a body inside it.”

 _“It appears we would have been better wearing the full suit,”_ Delta comments unhelpfully.

“Yes, well,” York stalls, pulling gently on his trapped arm; the motion is half distraction for him to reach his left under the table for his own gun, “I hope you find lots of bodies to loot in some other bar. If you don’t mind,” and a stronger tug nearly unseats her and has one of her cronies drawing his own weapon.

Mind racing, York runs through his options. He could probably use Kass’s grip to yank her over the table and use her as a hostage slash shield - _“that would result in a standoff, and too many people would notice us”_ \- or shoot her under the table and try to blame the blue-haired woman in the scorched armor - _“if Kass’s men didn’t shoot you, that bounty hunter would”_ \- and not for the first time he feels terribly alone.

“I’d rather not fight you,” he concludes, presenting one more scenario for Delta’s silent appraisal. Kass’s grip turns into a caress, cold and violating against the tendons of his wrist.

“It’s not personal, Brady. It’s just business.”

_“Now.”_

Under the table, York does three things in fast succession. He fires three shots in the direction of Kass’s standing guard, tosses his gun, and kicks the table to the side. The guard and another patron howl in pain, Kass draws her own weapon, and York has a free hand in time to grab her arm and throw them both to the floor. In the space of two seconds, the entire bar explodes into chaos.

It seems lady luck wasn’t entirely against York this evening - he rolls the struggling Kass on top of him, using the fallen table as a shield as gunfire nearly deafens him. Kass’s minions are occupied by either injures or the other patrons, and he swears he catches sight of the blue-haired woman swinging a sword as she springs into the fray. He could hardly have asked for a better distraction.

 _“Focus, Agent York.”_ A gleam of silver chain falls out of Kass’s shirt. Leaning up, he catches it in his teeth, digs his heels in and rolls them again, hauling on her necklace. She makes a sound of rage and fights to shoot him - the bullet probably embeds itself in the ceiling above them but the necklace holds, scraping steel against his enamel. “Fuck you,” squalls Kass.

“You’re not my type,” York spits back, right wrist aching as the bones grind in her gloved grip. It feels suspiciously like she’s got some kind of enhancement in that hand.

A flash of images distract him as he struggles to hold Kass down; the knife stashed on the inside of his right leg, a deep cut across his contact’s throat, the necklace coming away easily from a headless corpse. “No,” he chokes around his mouthful, and Kass shoots again. York rolls onto his back again, this time pushing their bodies apart enough to get a boot on her thigh.

He kicks her up and away with all the force he can muster, and he hears something crack as Kass is flung across the bar, sans necklace. There’s no time to celebrate, not when he’s unarmed and on the floor, so he scrambles around to the other side of the table. One of Kass’s men lays dead on the other side, deep burns from a plasma rifle scoring his skull bare in a couple places, and York scavenges a pistol off the body. He checks the magazine, stashes the key card in a slot in his left bracer, and checks the mirror above the bar.

It’s cracked, but he thinks he can see Kass struggling to her feet. York crouches, reviews his mental layout of the bar - _“fifteen steps towards your three o’clock, sharp right turn, twenty six steps and the exit swings outwards”_ \- and bolts. He’s going to get shot. He knows it, knew it since he arrived and just hopes the flimsy armored jacket takes the edge of the shot. And that she doesn’t aim for his head.

The bullet hits him high on the ribs, just below his left shoulder - York grabs the corner of the wall as he stumbles from the pain, and he’s pretty sure it’s Delta who yanks their shared body into the hall and keeps him on his feet. His breathing stutters, he tastes metal and gunpowder in the back of his throat, and then he plows through the door and breathes in fresh air and the cold scent of a city rain.

“Gravity boots,” he gasps, and knows he’s at least cracked two ribs. Delta helps keep his head clear enough to flick the switches manually, a mental shoulder under his arm, and York scrambles up the side of the building as Kass follows him into the alley.

This time, she misses first, and he has enough time to backflip onto the other wall in the alleyway and draw his stolen gun. From this range, he can’t miss. Kass turns to face him, one hand holding her leg, and when their eyes meet York is suddenly, miserably reminded of another woman with desperate and angry eyes.

But he can’t hesitate; even if his mind is reeling, skidding and scrambling for purchase as he wonders where has this happened before, he feels his fingers pull the trigger. Kass crumbles to the ground, dropping the gun as her hands fly to her chest where hot, pungent blood is staining her shirt. He fires twice more for good measure, until he has to rear back and grab the wall or fall forward.

Overtaxed muscles burning from the stress of trying to stand horizontally, York turns and runs up the steel and brick wall, pulling himself up onto the roof and disengaging the gravity as he gasps for breath. A few last shots ring out behind him, whizzing harmlessly into the sky and pinging off the gutters. He’s safe, but only for a moment.

_"Agent York, you need to keep moving."_

“Stop calling me Agent,” he wheezes, feeling the rain starting to soak through his jacket and course down the back of his neck as he kneels. His chest and throat are tight, and there’s someone else’s blood spattered on his face that he wipes away with his hand. All at once, it sweeps over him in a wave of adrenaline, agony and memory.

It was the end of a recon mission in a forest, and it had started to rain, soaking in through his undersuit and rolling off his white UNSC armor, glass marbles across white sheets. He’d wanted to breathe in the fresh air, not through the filter of his helmet, so he’d taken it off and tilted his head to the sky. It was the first time in months he’d felt any water on his face other than recycled shower water or sweat.

Then Carolina’s voice had erupted from the helmet in his hands, tight and angry, and when he’d teased he couldn’t hear her with his helmet off, she’d ripped off her matching one and grabbed his chestplate. But she hadn’t been angry, like he’d expected; she’d been afraid.

And he should have told her to just breathe it in, that they were safe out here; and he could have kissed her, even if they were still young and barely past strangers; but he didn’t do anything but look at her in the rain until she shoved his helmet on. He didn’t do anything. He never did anything, she was always the one doing things, and he still isn’t doing--

_“York. Get up.”_

His fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt, just above his heart, and he shifts his left shoulder experimentally. The stab of agony is both warning and annoyance, fire alarm sirens when he’d just as soon roll over and go to sleep, but York gets up and gets moving. It’s a long run back to his motel, but at least the rain will wash away his physical traces.

He thinks about Kass back in the alley, bleeding out cold and alone, and doesn’t stumble.

 

* * *

 

The bullet broke the skin and a couple ribs, but it could have been much worse. York plucked it out without much difficulty and only a little more blood, then passed out face-down on the mattress until nightmares of blood and rain and snow and white armor jolt him awake a few hours later. The images and feelings still cling to him, like the dried blood he’d can’t quite wash out from under his fingernails. Nostalgia, bitter and addicting. Guilt, six times as bad but just as insidious.

Apparently, it’s enough to catch Delta’s interest. _“It is still very possible Agent Carolina--”_ he starts.

“Don’t want to talk about it, D,” York groans as he hauls himself out of bed and over to the crowded little desk peppered with cobbled together computers and weapons. Overall, it’s a tiny room and he’s pretty sure he saw a cockroach the size of his-- a cool flash of disapproval from Delta-- fine, _hand_ , the size of his _hand_ \-- scurry into the bathroom, but it was the only place that took cash and didn’t ask questions.

At least the intel Kass had given him seemed to check out. With the coordinates of the archives, it wouldn’t be hard to hack into some public mainframe for blueprints, or recon it in civvies. Once he heals, with the help of a scavenged medkit, he’ll be good to go. Of course, he’s almost certainly going to have the remains of the Project following at his heels after last night’s fiasco. It could have been worse, yes, but no doubt they’re hunting him already. He doesn’t have the luxury of being invisible like Texas, patient like North, or dead like Carolina.

Not dead. Rumored dead. No way she’d get herself killed by someone like Maine and his shitty little fiery AI. She’s fine. She’s just… not with him right now. Fuck, what was he supposed to be--

Kass. Right. His mind tends to rabbit trail these days, thoughts shying away from unpleasant stimuli and frantically redirecting until he gets so lost he has to start the whole process over. Shaking his head doesn’t help either, but like so many other futile things, he does it anyway.

York forces his features to relax as a fresh headache starts to creep along the back of his head. It spreads out, feathering like a slow-mo shot of shattering glass, little metaphorical shards embedding in his brain and following the paths he imagines the AI implantation process caused. He likes puzzles, usually. Likes diving into the coding of an enemy computer, picking apart locks, applying logic to complex situations and solving them.

But this isn't a puzzle. It's a trust fall. It's luck. And York has not had a lot of luck recently, as the recently overtaxed healing unit on his suit can prove.

Sighing, York picks up and examines the knife he’d refused to use last night. It’s one of Connie’s - he’d know the shape of it anywhere - but Connie herself hadn’t given it to him. Texas had. Just before they’d parted ways, she’d wrapped his fingers around the hilt and told him she trusted him to do the right thing with it. The memory stings, but not as bad as the one that clings, heavy and miasmatic, to the unassuming little lighter sitting on the table as well.

He swaps the knife with what looks like a length of wire with a small clamp on each end; one is attached to the chestpiece of his armor and the other he clips, with some fumbling, to the back of his neck.

“Hey, D.”

 _“Yes?”_ This time a flickering green hologram appears when he calls on the AI, and an audible voice. York fights back a smile; he missed seeing Delta. They haven’t had the luxury of talking face to face for a few days, and… Well. Delta is all he really has left.

He starts to lean back in his chair but remembers his shoulder just in time. “Begin a new journal entry, please.”

_“All right. Recording starts in three, two, one.”_

“Today is,” he checks the calendar on the wall, “shit. Sirius fourteen. Anyway. The contact with Kass went a little sour, but I got the key card to the archives in District Nine. In a few hours, I’m gonna head down to the spaceport and see what ride I can get there.” Steal, more like, but he can always pretend that he’ll barter for passage.

He scratches a healing cut from last night on his chin, where a few day’s worth of stubble is starting to annoy him. “Kass said something about UNSC wanting armor, and I can’t be sure if it was Project-related or not. Better safe than sorry. Or better safe than six feet under.” Distracted, he starts to rack his brain for death-related words starting with ‘s’. “Better safe than slaughtered? Hmmm, sounds a little bloody.”

 _“Agent York,”_ Delta interrupts him. York stills.

“Yeah?”

_“Why are you so eager to gain access to the records of Project Freelancer?”_

“Because some of those were crimes, D. Big crimes. And someone needs to pay for them.” He has to know where he went wrong; every last mission, every dead civilian and every stolen item. An inventory of things he needs to fix.

Delta seems unconvinced - as usual, but it’s never bothered York. He’s always bloomed in the face of scepticism. _“And why must you be the one to make sure they’re paid for?”_

“I want to do the right thing.” He swallows, corrects himself. He has to be sure. “Keep doing the right thing.”

 _“I see. Also, might I suggest: ‘better safe than shot?”_ Delta quips.

York can’t help but smile at that. “Excellent choice, D. Better safe than shot.”

 

* * *

 

Of course he ends up stealing a ship, but he does leave a small heap of currency and a note of apology in its place, so. Maybe it’s karma that he tears his barely-scabbed shoulder injury disabling the tracking function and performing the high-tech version of hot-wiring the ship into working order. Or maybe he’ll get shot at again when he gets to the archives. In either case, he’s careful not to leave bloodstains on the back of the cabin seat and doesn’t touch anything without wearing gloves.

He spares himself only a few hours planetside to scope out the building, feeling the crunch for time. Yes, the Project is almost certainly on his trail, but he can only hope that he’s still a couple steps ahead of them. In any case, he doesn’t delay and his shoulder is a dull throb by the time York slips up to one of the myriad back doors of the Archives. He’s only armed with a concealed plasma pistol (that is digging horribly into his ribcage), a flash grenade, and Connie’s knife, along with his typical bag of tricks. Which isn’t much, but he hopes it’s enough.

And overall he feels exceedingly lucky; once inside, York forces his pace into a casual, confident meander and few people look up. There’s lots of soldiers around, in considerably less (and cheaper) armor than his own, and he’s unpleasantly surprised.

“Thought this was a civilian building,” he mutters into his helmet’s private channel, where only Delta can hear him.

_“Indeed. Perhaps when we were doing recon, I could have looked deeper into the employee databanks and--”_

“Too late now.” One of the people in a slightly better uniform than the others - York immediately senses rank - stares at him a little too long. He forces himself to look away smoothly, mind racing, and he catches sight of the elevators. Waving, he picks up his pace and jogs towards the closing doors.

Behind him, the semi-important person is definitely taking notice. York grits his teeth and refuses to break into a run, as much as his soldier’s instincts are blaring TRAP. He has to do this. He has to do the right thing.

Thankfully, the employee in the elevator holds the door patiently for him, and York slips inside before anyone actually works up the initiative to stop him. His hand is shaking, so he grabs the handrail inside as casually as he can and takes deep, steady breaths. His ribs are starting to hurt already. Maybe he should have waited at least until he’d healed entirely, but it’s too late now. A phrase that is all too familiar to him.

 _“The information we need should be on the servers on the 29th floor,”_ Delta reminds him, calm and constant. York flashes him a thankful grin inside his helmet.

The employee is side-eying him; York tilts his helmet to the side in silent, friendly acknowledgment. “Uh, level 29 please.”

His companion hits the button in silence. York watches him out of the corner of his good eye. The guy is dressed in professional, forgettable civilian attire, and looks every inch a cog-in-the-machine techie. Exactly the kind of guy York could have become, if circumstances had been a little different.

“Nice gear,” the man comments. York gives his companion a broad, invisible smile.

“Thanks.”

There’s a brief pause. A comfortable sort of pause, where each man is content to keep his thoughts to himself. York is starting to grind his teeth, so he lightly chews on his tongue to distract himself and finds himself almost envying this stranger. He probably leads a quiet life, with a wife (or husband) and maybe a few kids. A dog. All things York had put on his list of Things To Do After, back when he thought the Project came with a retirement plan.

“Kind of a gaudy color, though,” the man continues.

“Hmm? Oh,” and York inspects how the lighting in the elevator makes his armor gleam gilded. He hadn’t expected to continue the conversation. “Not my fault. I asked for something neutral, like light brown or mossy green. This was what they gave me.”

A grunt in response; then the elevator stops. York slides his hand towards his concealed gun. In the back of his neck, he can feel Delta get ready as well with a tiny surge of countless, whispered calculations. The AI equivalent of a nervous shiver.

The doors slide open, his companion exits, and the elevator continues on without incident.

York lets out a long, low whistle and leans on the handrail. “Kinda wishing someone would start shooting at me just to get this over with, you know?”

_“I am not sure I know what you mean. Not twenty four hours ago, you were extremely upset about how Kass had--”_

“Never mind. Human stuff, D.” Later, he’ll explain to his AI things like stress and insecurityinsincerity, but they’ve hit the 29th floor and he has to focus. York lets his eyes flutter closed as he inhales, imagines hearing Carolina’s calm voice over the radio telling him that _‘just because you can take a few more bullets than the rest of us doesn’t mean you’re immortal, so don’t get cocky’_ or something just as motivating. Lets himself stand still for a moment longer and soak in the rush of emotions of struggling to remember what, exactly, she sounded like.

God, what he’d give to hear their voices again. Even if it meant listening to one of Wyoming’s knock-knock jokes, which had never been funny and never would be, but anything was better than this radio silence.

_“Agent York.”_

“Gotta keep moving. I know, I know,” he gripes, then steps out of the elevator into a high-ceilinged, blue-cast room filled with staggered rows and aisles of shoulder-high server towers. The hum of electricity makes him feel as though he’s stepped into the heart of some vast mechanical monster, and he starts setting motion trackers as he walks calmly forward. There’s a few tech-types, like the one who shared an elevator with him, and one guard just coming out of the restroom.

York ducks down, but can’t tell if he made it in time or not. Picking a tower somewhat at random, he runs gloved fingers down the side until he finds the kind of slot he’s looking for and pulls out the key he got from Kass. He slots it into place, waiting as a small screen unfolds itself from the bars and wires of the tower, showing an hourglass and then a checkmark.

_ACCESS GRANTED_

He grins inside his helmet and pulls out another chip-like device; this one much larger and coarser looking. A transmitter is thick and heavy on the end, and it flickers once York plugs it in below the card.

“All right, D,” and he lets himself smile, “go fetch.”

The transmitter, which allows Delta to wirelessly jump between the serves and York, seems to blink indignantly in response. _“I protest to that, Agent York. I am not a canine, nor do I--”_

“It’s an expression. Like work your magic.”

_“Magic has long since proven not to be--”_

York feels some of his near-infinite patience run thin. “Delta.”

 _“Very well. Beginning to hunt and copy information relevant to history of Project Freelancer.”_ The screen begins to flash at a dizzying rate as Delta plows through countless years of UNSC archives with all the speed that comes natural to something born of code.

He wants to ask for an ETA, but movement in his motion trackers catches his attention. It’s another one of those techie types, watching him with a suspicious, pinched expression. York swallows.

“What are you doing?” the stranger asks, and York carefully emotes a helmeted smile.

“Just making a copy of some files for my boss.” Unseen, he traces his thumb along the hilt of his pistol, and not for the first time wishes for a proper shotgun. The techie looks at the flashing screen, then along York’s armor, and frowns. Takes a step backward.

“I don’t believe you.”

He doesn’t need Delta to tell him to draw his gun; without breaking his crouch, York pulls the sleek, alien weapon and aims it at the employee. But he hesitates, realizing that a plasma bolt will do much more damage plowing through tissue than compressed metal and plastic. And he realizes, in the part of his mind taking a backseat to the man named Agent York, that he doesn’t want to do this anymore.

“You got two options. Do you wanna be a hero, or do you want to be a survivor?” York hisses, even as his instincts (which almost sound like Carolina, teal-tinted on the edges) scream for him to pull the trigger and stop compromising the mission. The techie’s eyes go wide and he takes another step backwards.

“You’re the Freelancer,” he whispers, and the transmitter flashes. York spares it a glance and shifts his kneel, supporting his gun with both hands.

“Yep. And I’d really, like like to stop shooting the wrong people, so if you could-- wait.” The sick feeling is back, the itch in his blind spot, the paranoia that he’s doing everything wrong. “Did you say ‘a’ Freelancer or ‘the’ Freelancer?”

Someone’s voice calls from across the room, helmet-distorted and authoritative. “Hey, Joseph, what’s happening?”

Naked eyes meet York’s through the visor of his helmet, and before either of them can speak York takes aim and fires. From this range, the bolt doesn’t just hit the man’s shoulder; it disintegrates it in a shower of smoke and bone fragments. There is no time for regrets or mercy in a fight, but he still clenches his jaw at the man’s shriek of agony.

York shoves the display screen back into its slot in the tower and dives around the corner, anticipating fire. And he’s right. A spray of bullets ring over his head, pinging off the armored tops of the server towers. “Got an ETA for those files, D?” he asks, back against a tower as he sets new motion trackers.

_“It should take me another five minutes to collect the rest of--”_

“I can buy you five minutes. Be careful.” York ducks and weaves through the towers, taking the occasional shot and carefully keeping track of how far he is away from the chip. “Don’t hesitate to jump back to me if you’re in danger.”

_“Understood. Please be careful as well, Agent York.”_

“You can drop the Agent part any day now,” he grunts, ducking around another tower just in time as a guard opens fire. He can hear them yelling into their radios, feels the pounding of feet across the floor, and represses the urge to thump his helmet into the wall. Not surprising that they were expecting him; he knows all too well how good the Project can be. He can beat himself up for being an idiot later, if he makes it out.

A soldier appears at the end of his aisle; York doesn’t hesitate when he fires this time, wincing as one bolt misses by a wide margin and the other clips his target in the hip. But he still buys himself enough time to slip around another tower and come face to face with a terrified civilian.

“Easy--” he starts, holding his free hand palm-up in a gesture of peace. “I’m not--”

She screams and jumps up before he can stop her, throwing herself away from him and into a short burst of gunfire. From this close, blood spatters the edge of his visor as she’s torn apart by friendly fire, and York takes the chance to keep moving, circling back to where he left the chip in the maze of server towers.

He swipes the blood off with two fingers and calls to Delta. “What’s my time?”

_“Three minutes and twenty three seconds remaining.”_

York sees the next soldier before he’s spotted, and fires two precise bolts into their neck.  Popping his head around the corner, he fires off another few bolts as he slips between aisles and checks the fallen soldier for weapons.

“That’s more like it,” he grins as he retrieves a shotgun from the limp body, stashing the plasma pistol for the moment and cocking the familiar weapon. This time, he doesn’t hesitate - or entirely aim - when he sees something trying to sneak behind him. A spray of steel pellets does the job for him, and he creeps along with considerably more confidence.

Confidence that doesn’t last very long. York vaults over a server tower and takes his next victim entirely by surprise, catching her in a stranglehold. As she struggles in his grip, he catches a familiar voice over the soldier’s helmet intercom.

_“You better hold that fucker down, Perry. If he escapes, I’ll come back for you once I’ve taken him out.”_

Okay, so that hadn’t been exactly what he’d had in mind when he’d wanted to hear their voices again, but he can’t deny the way his mouth twitches in an aborted smile. “Hey, D, wrap up whatever you’re doing,” York warns as he pulls out his flash grenade and arms it. “We gotta run.”

_“Is something the matter?”_

“Yeah,” and he chucks the grenade down the aisles, as far from Delta’s chip as he can, and breaks into a run. “South’s coming.”

As soon as the grenade goes off in a blinding blast of light that hurts his eyes even through his eyelids and visor, York rips into the nearest fallen soldier’s helmet and whispers an order to Delta. “Time for a false lead.”

Clipping a different kind of transmitter to the wires in the helmet, York listens to chaos erupting over the radio.

_“Where did he go? Anyone see him?”_

_“The fuck is the target?”_

_“Dude, I am not telling that bitch we lost the guy.”_

_“Seal the exits! Don’t let him escape!”_

It’s the work of moments for York and Delta to patch together false orders and feed them back through the radio. _“Target spotted heading down the stairs!”_

_“Fuck, I thought we locked those! Team Gray, get the rest of the civies out. Team Green, follow me down the south stairwell. Team Orange can take the north stairs.”_

_“But the north stairs are so much steeper--”_

_“You know what’s also steep, Jenna? Getting thrown off the fucking roof.”_

York tucks himself around a server, shotgun a comforting weight against his back, and watches the room empty around him, making himself as small and still as possible until the coast is clear. Then he creeps back across the room to Delta’s chip and the passkey.

“Ready to go?”

_“Of course.”_

York gently disengages the passkey and slips back to the elevator, forcing the doors open and staring down the narrow shaft. “God, I miss Niner,” he laments, lowering himself down and partially engaging his gravity boots, sliding down in a swift, but controlled descent. If he can get to the basement, he can steal a car, change in the back, and drive calmly all the way back to the spaceport, with turn signals and everything.

The sudden squall of machinery alerts him to the elevator’s change in plans just in time for it to knock him off his feet as it hurtles upwards. York rolls onto his knees and tries to think fast. “D, can you stop the elevator?”

 _“Not fast enough, Agent York.”_ He’s fed the image of blasting a hole in the elevator’s ceiling with his plasma gun and ducking inside, and immediately draws his pistol. The first couple bolts don’t seem to do much, so he tries swearing for emphasis as the floors fly by. There would be something horribly ignoble about dying by being crushed by an elevator.

Thankfully, emptying the plasma pistol’s entire charge into the ground weakens the ceiling enough York can punch through it, and he hits the carpeted floor a second before the elevator comes to a natural stop. Chips of ceiling crumble and shower him in dust, and York drags himself back to his feet. He was almost _shafted_.

A despairing giggle croaks out of his throat; the kind of laugh that’s only possible when one has narrowly escaped a horrific death but senses an even worse one is on the way. And as the elevator doors open to a massive, pristine executive's office with a lone armored figure inside, he’s proven right.

South stands silhouetted against the evening skyline, the lights of the adjacent buildings glittering like stars against a rosy-purple sky through the floor to ceiling windows. It looks like she’s been waiting for him, judging from how some of the furniture’s been pushed out of the way. Thrown, actually; so she’s not been waiting patiently.

York steps out of the elevator - he’d rather be shot than at the mercy of another sudden drop - and South turns to face him. He can read the barely contained fury in her body, even with her purple Spartan armor and blank helmet, and he raises his plasma pistol.

For once, he doesn’t have anything to say; not when he knows this is yet another fight he doesn’t really want to have, and not when he knows arguing would be entirely useless. So he waits, and he watches, and at the last possible second he fires.

Or at least he pulls the trigger. _“That gun is empty, Agent York,”_ Delta reminds him, and York has just enough time to drop the useless weapon and dive for cover as South opens fire.

“Thanks for the warning, D,” he grits sarcastically, swapping out to his borrowed shotgun and cocking it with a sure, steady movement. South has him pinned down at the moment - _“at the current rate of depletion, you have nine seconds left under cover”_ \- but if he can get behind the desk on the other side, maybe--

“No witty comebacks?” she taunts, reloading her machine gun as York watches the shadow she casts on the wall. “Not like you to be so quiet, York.”

All right, so he has to take that opening. “Not like you to be sent out alone on a mission, South. Project must be getting desperate if they let you go without a leash,” he baits, running a scenario past Delta.  If anyone’s backing her up, it’s North, and if it’s North than maybe there’s a chance that they’ll--

The shadows shift as South switches weapons. York takes the opportunity to dive forward and try to work his way closer, firing a couple blasts that she effortlessly dodges as he finds new cover. He’s never been a good shot, especially not with his bad eye. But if he can get close enough, he can force her into melee fighting, and there he has the advantage of years sparring with Carolina.

“Lots of things have changed since you left,” South snarls. “Including me.”

She’s left her flank wide open, and there’s that chill again. The sense that things aren’t right, that it’s too easy. York hesitates in his approach, indecision overriding instinct - and South pivots and fires a pistol of her own. He dodges, but it still catches him in a deep graze in the side of his neck. York claps a hand to the injury, feeling the hot trickle of blood seeping into the fabric of his gloves, and tries to track South’s motion. This time, when he leaps over the desk and reels his arm back in a punch, he doesn’t hesitate.

But his blow never connects with South herself. A golden, shimmering honeycomb barrier springs up and absorbs the blow; and the shockwave from both the energy shield’s vibrations and his punch send York reeling, sprinting away from another hail of bullets on his heels as South chases his progress with a machine gun.

South is alone, and she has North’s energy shield.

York wavers, crouched behind an ostentatious chair that shudders under the impact of bullets but still holds. The math is obvious but he doesn’t want to believe-- he can’t--

_“Agent York.”_

“South,” he asks, voice cool on the edges and breaking in the center, “where’s North?”

The chair explodes under the force of another round; in the hail of shattered wood and stuffing, York dives forward again, this time firing with his shotgun. He catches her, maybe, on the shoulder, as he passes; but the window behind her shatters as well and he has to hide again, trying to keep her out of his blind side.

More blood seeps out, pooling on the top of his chestplate, and he calls out to her again. “South.”

“I had to cut a deal with the UNSC, didn’t I?” And it’s South’s voice, for sure, and her armor as well but it’s not her behind the words. There’s something hollow behind them. Something broken. “After you and Texas tore everything apart. I had to help fix it. And it’s not like he’s using it right now, anyway.”

He breathes in the night air, tinged with the scent of weapon smoke, the smog of industry and the iron tang of his own blood. A deep, shuddering inhale that he holds as he lets the knowledge sink in, a thousand memories and images surrounding him and closing over his head like water. Exhales.

York yanks Connie’s knife out of the sheath strapped to his leg and charges.

He fights half aware of his own thoughts, letting the mental boundary between himself and Delta slip away as the AI speeds and sharpens his movements. The knife vibrates in his hand as it catches the shield, making it stutter briefly; and he slams his elbow into South’s machine gun as she tries to fire. He slips in a couple good punches and a deep gash along her forearm, between the armor plates, before he’s knocked back out of her range and the shield jumps back up.

But it’s all York when he calls out again as he charges, narrowly missing another spray of bullets as South backs up. “Theta!”

A flicker of orange and blue answers him; Delta yanks their body to the side as South opens fire, hiding them behind the desk just in time. York fires his last pellet load around the corner, then flings the empty gun out the window.

“Theta, don’t listen to her! You don’t have to do what she says!”

 _“But I’m scared of her, York,”_ comes a small voice, distorted by the shield that counters yet another punch and sends a shockwave of pain up York’s arm. South whirls and kicks him - he blocks with his forearms and tries to dart in again but she’s learning and shoves him backwards with another flash of the shield. _“I can’t do anything. That’s why they took me from North.”_

To hear those words said by such a small, gentle voice is enough to cut York to the bone. Some bitter, snarling part of him whispers that he should be getting used to this by now, and it’s that part that pushes forward, using reckless moves that make Delta prickle with alarm. And it’s that part that gets South in his blind spot, shooting him three times in the back, and shoving him out the window.

He falls a couple stories before his gravity boots kick in and he skids down the wall on his hands and knees, one hand leaving a long bloody smear on the glass. York takes in another breath, short and sharp and furious, and charges back up the wall, knocking South back inside the office as she starts to go after him. This time, however, he hits her with enough force to knock her to the ground and he straddles her, Connie’s knife at her throat.

Once more, he invisions sinking his blade down, through fabric and flesh and cartilage all the way to bone; and Delta and Agent York agree that it’s the only way to end this confrontation.

“And this is all you care about, South?” He chokes, blood dripping down his chest to splatter on South’s visor, on the flood. “Revenge? Winning? He’s your brother!”

She grabs his knife by the blade, probably cutting her fingers to the bone in the process. Her own blood coats her arm from his gash earlier, splashing down to mingle with his and streak her purple armor.

“So were _you_!”

The shield throws him across the room, sending him flying into a window that bends and crackles under the impact but holds. Holds like York still finds his feet, even as his mind splinters at the edges under the stress of what he has to do and what he swore he’d never do. Holds until South shoots him again. He curls to protect his vitals, dropping Connie’s knife as the force of the volley sends him hurtling backwards into space.

Delta rolls them with the blow and somehow, York finds his footing on the opposite building, tripping and tumbling but slowing his progress to the ground anyway until he hits the pavement hard, face down on his blind side. Delta gets them up onto their hands and knees, Delta hauls them around the corner and it’s Delta who keeps them conscious. York is shaking, shaken, and unarmed. Useless.

South was right. That’s what is hurting him, more than the bruises in his back or the gash in his neck. More than the aches in his joints from all the running and falling. More than his loss. York inhales and tastes nothing, feels nothing in the moment other than guilt. How much has this venture cost him so far? How many lives has he taken, for little more than the same motives as South? How much has he thrown away trying to be a hero?

 _“Shall I give them the other distraction, Agent York?”_ Delta asks, cool and polite and he inexplicably seems distant, even though you can’t get much closer than being fused with someone’s nervous system. York shakes his head, splattering blood on the pavement as passersby start to take notice and panic.

“Sure,” York obliges; inside the Archives, the chip with the transmitter flickers in response. Suddenly, the lights in the server towers start flickering and dying like stars fading in a grim mechanical sunrise. It’s a hard system wipe and a power down, and as York fumbles his way through hot-wiring a motorcycle, every light in the Archives begins to fade.

He feels Delta jump back into his body and guns the engine, weaving through traffic and leaving the darkening city behind.

 

* * *

 

There’s a slight tremor to York’s hand as he punches in the coordinates and sets the ship on autopilot, and tries to settle himself into a comfortable position. No small feat when he’s still in full armor, but a sore back is better than losing the benefits of his healing unit. His other hand is holding a pad of gauze to the wound on his neck that’s still weeping blood, and at this point he doesn’t care how much of it gets all over the seats or dashboard. He won’t be returning it.

He withdraws the hard-won chip and slots it into the ship’s onboard computer, leaning back as it projects files onto the transparent windshield while stars streak by. Delta did a good job; not only are there records of every mission ever performed by the Project, but also what looks like expense spreadsheets. It’s the personnel files, however, that have his breath catching in his throat.

Everyone is there; members he served with years ago, the fatalities, the dropouts. Utah, Georgia, Virginia - he lingers on that name, remembering the woman behind it - and Montana. Alaska, Arkansas, Indiana… everyone.

Including North Dakota. York swallows hard and dares to look. He skims over the biological stuff, trying not to read his age, his birth name, the names of his parents and his hometown, and goes all the way down to the bottom.

_STATUS: Suspended._

He’d thought-- he’d thought that North would have had the sense to run, to get away from the Project. Of course, he wouldn’t have left without his sister. But what about--

_“Agent York, you are still bleeding.”_

“I’m fine, D,” he dismisses the AI distractedly. He flips through the files of everyone he left behind, sick to his stomach. Did none of them escape the Project? Did his raid with Texas ensure nothing but a swifter, messier death for all his friends as the Director crushed them with his desperation?

 _Agent Washington:  
_ _STATUS: Suspended._

  _Agent Wyoming:  
__STATUS: Suspended._

 _Agent South Dakota:  
_ _STATUS: Active._

 _Agent Florida:  
_ _STATUS: Unknown._

 _Agent Maine:  
_ _STATUS: Rogue._

York lets out a harsh exhale, blinking as his scars burn across his left side, and selects Carolina’s file. He already knows her birth name, is all too familiar with her parents and the constructs they left behind, and again he skims down to the bottom.

_STATUS: Killed in action._

_“Agent York.”_

York can’t close the file fast enough, feeling his heart drop into his stomach and the edge of the lighter dig into his skin as his breathing stutters. “No,” he gasps, the air crushing in his lungs as her life flashes in front of him; their fights, their friendship, their wars and missions and the peace they found so seldomly, wrapped up in their own work. Years together, years of building the Project and each other, and in one brilliant flash of self-righteous zeal he’d destroyed it. All of it.

_“Agent York.”_

“Stop calling me Agent,” York rasps, and with trembling hands he reaches to the back of his neck and switches Delta off. The silence is immediate, chilling and definite as death, even though it’s temporary and he knows Delta will be fine. And yet it feels like cutting off a piece of himself, just like fighting Carolina had felt. Like all of it had felt.

But it had been a price he’d been willing to pay, at the time. He’d been willing to fight his way through all of his friends, following Texas’s lead, in the name of undoing past wrongs. But this-- This can’t be right. _He_ can’t be right. And there is no scenario, no possible situation or injustice, where it would have been the right thing to kill Carolina.

Numb, oblivious to the gauze that had fallen to the floor, York slouches forward and buries his face in shaking, weak hands. It had always felt like he’d have a lot to do to make things even again; he had always known it would be a long road if he wanted to be a hero again. But this is the first time he doesn't think he can make it there at all.

 

* * *

 

“With all due respect, sir,” South starts, swatting away the medical aide trying to treat the gash on her forearm, “that fall should have killed him. I didn’t pursue immediately because--”

“I don’t want your excuses, Agent South.” The man before her is old, silver haired and sedate as a mountain. “You’ve been given enough chances. The UNSC has handed you your brother’s AI, a perfectly secure location, and Agent York himself on a goddamned platter.  And with all of that at your disposal, still, you have failed.”

The man’s voice lacks the authoritative snap she remembers from the Director, the razor-keen bite underneath a layer of Southern saccharine civility. Instead, it’s thrumming, deep and exhausted, like an elastic band stretched too tight for too long. There is no pretense here; only consequence. “You shall be prepped for surgery, and Theta will be restored to North. He’s proved himself very... _dedicated_ in your absence.”

The tone in his voice makes South choke with rage, both for herself and for North. “You can’t--”

“I can do anything I want, Agent South. Especially with you and your brother.” He turns his head ever so slightly her way. “Dismissed.”

Gritting her teeth, South is led away by the medical personnel, Connie’s knife thumping against her hip and her mind buzzing with thoughts of betrayal.

 

* * *

 

By the time he can bear to turn Delta back on, York’s neck has healed into a tender, salmon scar. His armor and undersuit have been stripped and cleaned as best as he could with the small ship’s facilities, and he’s in entirely civilian clothes for the first time in what feels like weeks.

“Sorry about that, D,” he begins, settling himself back down on the pile of tarps that serves as his bed. “I was a little… upset.”

 _“I see.”_ If there’s any sarcasm in the AI’s calm tone, York chooses to ignore it. _“Are you feeling any less upset, Agent York?”_

“Maybe.” He’s not sure. All he feels is small, raw and vulnerable. Nothing like Agent York at all. “I want you to record another journal entry for me. All right?”

_“Understood.”_

York clips the lead onto the back of his neck and to his armor, waiting until Delta flickers into visibility a few inches above his head. He swallows.

“Ready.”

“ _Recording starts in three, two, one.”_

York puts on a smile that he knows won’t show up in the recording. “Sirius twenty. The raid on the Archives was a success. Wiping their systems of all data on Project Freelancer seems to have thrown them off a little bit. It won’t be long until they figure out how to get it back, but if nothing else I hope I was able to fuck with them enough to buy myself some time.” He heaves a sigh and leans forward, picking up a lighter from the tarp and flipping it open. “And I’ve got all the info I need, so.”

_“If I may offer a suggestion; one of the resources stolen by the Project is being housed not too far away from our current destination. Perhaps we could--”_

“No, D.” York flips the lighter closed again and leans back again the cold steel wall. “We’re gonna…” he swallows hard, thinking of the body count left in his wake. Thinking of Carolina, and how she led countless missions with ease. “We’re taking a little break from hero work for a while. Leave it to the professionals.”

 _“Oh.”_ The pause the AI takes sounds almost human in its trepidation. _“I understand.”_

“Do you?” he asks, suddenly cold and bitter like a biting winter wind. Like the ice that coats Carolina’s body, somewhere on that icy planet where Maine left her to die. Where he left her. “Because I sure as hell don’t. There’s always a solution in lock-picking, you know, always some way to make everything fall into place. But this isn’t…”

His mismatched eyes stare beyond Delta, out of focus as he pictures other, happier things; North and Wash in the mess hall, Connecticut and South sparring playfully with pugil sticks, Florida and Wyoming preening in the lockers, Maine at his side on a mission, Carolina smiling down at him. Abstract, distant things that he can’t have anymore.

“Maybe I don’t have to make the Project pay for anything.” York ignites the lighter with a flick of his thumb and comes back to the present. “Maybe some of us are paying for our crimes already.”

As they both watch, the flame on the lighter gutters and dies. York flips the lid closed and lowers it back onto the tarp, swallowing hard.

“End recording.”

  



End file.
